last wednesday, af...

last wednesday, after moving boxes labeled fragile, a few interrogations between siblings over stellas were complimented by a hot chocolate while the rain fell. i may have chosen to word those explanations differently, paying particular attention to punctuation and certain french pronunciations. nevertheless, i still wait for the occasion where i can use the ray bradbury answer; seventeen and insane. i pass up opportunity because the chances have grown more and more transparent. seventeen was such a long time ago. thursday evening i took a brisk walk pass the courthouse, followed by a brief visit to an address that came before the elgin street diner. glasses of wine, one puff, two puff, eight puffs of a weak cigarette. we sat in the back, one with legs crossed, and myself with toes pointed inward. spill the wine and then your mind would've been our slogan had there been a need for one. the four walls were lined with cases of niagara shiraz stacked to the ceiling. i went through the unlabeled boxes of used books and discovered a few gems, a few keepers. friday morning there was a multi car fender bender that interrupted my sleep. one car became an accordion, and the body bags outnumbered the stretchers if i had decided to count. all was cleared for the afternoon traffic. lately, i've been walking to and from the parks alone, sitting with my back against a naked tree i let the wind turn the pages for me. these afternoons do not last, because the relationships of the city have fallen like chains at my feet. they come knocking at the door at even and odd hours of the day. as i welcome them in, they settle into vomiting their words onto my bedsheets, leaving their stains and memories for me to bleach and polish.

this morning he le...

this morning he left the building where people toil and sweat over a variety of social rulers. there are mirrors everywhere, and desks with grid coordinates to record letters using a no.2 pencil. the building is multi-storied and windowless. when people mention scent he suffocates at the thought of the recycled air there. thousands of tulip bulbs are donated every year by the dutch government to commemorate the allied troops that liberated them during the war. most are planted around the government buildings and at the national park across the river. on campus, he can see them sprout for spring, and he cannot recall where the snow has gone. tomorrow morning i'll write another exam in a room where i took a classics course. during which i'll hope for a pleasant afternoon of writing postcards. i'll seek refuge under a statue erected in 1903 or a willow tree near the egyptian embassy. little messages that tell half stories and half nightmares with generic stamps. the tulips will be at my feet wherever i go tomorrow. and winter will be frozen in my pen.

you k...

you know, man, when i was a young man in high schoolyou believe in or not i wanted to play football for the coachand all those older guysthey said he was mean and cruel, but you knowwanted to play football for the coachthey said i was to little too light weight to play line-backerso i say i’m playing right-endwanted to play football for the coach’cause, you know some day, manyou gotta stand up straight unless you’re gonna fallthen you’re gone to dieand the straightest dudei ever knew was standing right for me all the timeso i had to play football for the coachand i wanted to play football for the coachwhen you’re all alone and lonelyin your midnight hourand you find that your soulit’s been up for saleand you begin to think ’boutall the things that you’ve doneand you begin to hatejust ’bout everythingbut remember the princess who lived on the hillwho loved you even though she knew you was wrongand right now she just might come shining throughand the -- glory of love, glory of loveglory of love, just might come throughand all your two-bit friendshave gone and ripped you offthey’re talking behind your back saying, manyou’re never going to be no human beingand you start thinking again’bout all those things that you’ve doneand who it was and what it wasand all the different things you made every different sceneahhh, but remember that the city is a funny placesomething like a circus or a sewerand just remember different people have peculiar tastesand the -- glory of love, the glory of lovethe glory of love, might see you throughyeah, but now, nowglory of love, the glory of lovethe glory of love, might see you throughglory of love, ah, huh, huh, the glory of loveglory of love, glory of loveglory of love, now, glory of love, nowglory of love, now, now, now, glory of loveglory of love, give it to me now, glory of love see you throughoh, my coney island baby, now(i’m a coney island baby, now)i’d like to send this one out for lou and racheland all the kids and p.s. 192coney island babyman, i’d swear, i’d give the whole thing up for youlyrics from lou reed's coney island babyi can hear the thunder outside. i can't see the lightning. it might rain forever they say.

when the weather ...

when the weather changes back and forth as fast as it has been, my sinuses cannot decide when to function. as a result my nose gives up at the most inconvenient times, and i spend the mornings trying helplessly to stop the bleeding. * * * i have this habit of going out in the rain to develop photos while leaving a kettle to boil dry on the stove. walking up the stairs i can smell the damage. walking into my apartment i know my roommate has already passed out in the room beside mine after drowning in a bottle of sub-standard sherry. * * * i tend to avoid silly western superstitions, such as opening an umbrella indoors and the reading of horoscopes. i prefer the lucky numbers i used for childhood team sports, although i rarely make reference to them today. my grandmother came to this country approximately thirty-five years ago, she brought with her five children and superstitions of a foreign continent. from across the ocean i've come to appreciate her ginseng roots and orange peels that are older than she can remember. * * *i've been dropping things everywhere lately. food, names, coins, people. i try to recall whether it was hansel or gretel that left the trail of bread crumbs behind themselves. (i don't even know if i am referring to the proper tale.) i think subconsciously i want to leave this place, but won't let myself go. there are holes in my pockets where the anchors fall. cracks in the sidewalk from where they land.

i am ...

i am living in the wrong city. or i am not living in the right city. there's a difference between the two.growing up i lived in four different homes. in the first; on a wall in my bedroom, my father painted a mural of disney characters riding inside a school bus. he tells me he used to paint scenic winter watercolour in college. the house had a piano that only my sister and i played. those sharps and flats now accumulate dust and age. the strings have not been tuned, nor played in years. my father used to do tai chi on saturday mornings hours before the sun decided to rise. i want to learn tai chi. as for the other three homes. i never lived in them long enough to see grass grow or leaves fall. the nails never popped, the floors failed to creak at night to tell me bedtime stories. so, in many ways, they are insignificant. forgotten. and irrelevant.

city s...

city squares, sharing earphones, fighting over the window seat, baseboards lined by books.i keep my expectations at the lowest possible levels. i do this to avoid disappointment, i do this because my life has become plastered over the walls and other people's lives with it. i've slowly learnt to expect nothing and have become willing to give (almost) everything to the next stranger. the phone doesn't ring, and i am not surprised nor disappointed, because this is of course, expected. at the corner of elgin and sparks street, across from a post office, beneath an irish pub named for a famous père de la confédération, lies the imperial barber. a place where civil servants and beige trench coats sit for the same shave their great-grandfathers received so long ago. he goes there for a haircut. he goes there because the original wainscoting smells of history. he goes there because hair is all he can cut.

when i wa...

when i was fourteen, one night in march, at an arena. my friend and i were equals in the food chain while standing in a room. we knew each other, despite he being nearly a full year older than i was. that previous september, we met the people in that room, and one another, all at the same time. over the years; the paint on the walls slowly peeled away, and the hockey players at the arena aged into higher divisions. later that night people were gathering to leave. the doors needed to be locked, windows closed, lights turned off. a long pause. a light remained, a door unlocked, and the draft from the bathroom knocked paint chips off the walls. a long pause. he went into the bathroom. she had tied her belt from the top of the bathroom stall door frame into a noose. the noose was secured with the brass buckle that came with the belt. my friend and i never really discussed what happened. she disappeared. and several years later we would leave that room behind us. now all that's left behind are miniscule paint chips, burnt lightbulbs, worn hardwood floors and a bent door frame.it's three a.m. i should be sleeping, and this is what surfaces in my mind.